


Worth believing

by David_Kesil (DaveJean)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 3rd chapter is all porn, AFTER MAG160, Angst, Drama, M/M, NSFW, Spoilers, Trans!Elias, big peter, big peter is the best peter not sorry, divorce(s), not sorry, queer, trans!peter, wedding(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaveJean/pseuds/David_Kesil
Summary: There was softness inside Peter Lukas’ eyes, and Elias Bouchard often thought he was the only one allowed to see it.Elias Bourchard reflects on his relationship with Peter Lukas, the Institute, and his ambitions.Inspired by Griftersbone's fanart (https://twitter.com/griftersbone/status/1223712503177392128?s=20)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	1. Looking at you

**Author's Note:**

> (It is not a podfic but if you listen to Eye in the sky by The Alan Parson's project for this chapter, you may cry) (You're welcome).

It was never meant to be, but he made sure they’d try. Time and time again, Peter would come back to London, to him, leaving his silence and distance back in the ocean. It was a lie they would never admit: that it could never be love, not in human way, not in a way that mattered to most.

But it mattered to them. Maybe that was enough.

The first divorce had been a surprise, and Elias didn’t like surprises. When one can watch it all, to feel the one that you hold closest to your heart has managed to trick you can feel like a weight too big for an old soul. Peter had spent a year travelling through the Pacific Ocean, avoiding London in a different way Elias was used to. He later learnt it had been a small warning from The Lonely, that thick, velvety fog that seemed to follow Peter everywhere he went. The sea walked with him, as did the cold and the damp taste of the salty waves.

“What’s this?” Elias had asked.

“Divorce papers.”

Elias hadn’t looked away from the other papers that left no corner of his oak table visible: statements, fund expenses and several CVs. He had collected himself, breathing slowly (even if he hardly need to) so no miscalculated word would pass through his lips.

“I mean what’s _this_. Where are you going with this divorce, Lukas.”

Maybe calling the man who was soon to be his ex-husband by his last name was the first drop of distance he allowed him, the beginning of a predictable end.

“It’s… complicated. For the best, I think.”

Elias had smiled; if anything, Peter had never been good with words. He tried, but solitude can do that to a person. What can you tell the world when you refuse to speak of it?

“I won’t sign.”

But he had.

He had signed those and, two years later, when Peter had come back with a golden ring for his left hand, he had signed again. Because he was curious. Because he had missed the lonely captain, the soft white beard that slowly grew and gave him a kind, familiar aura that never got too close.

Because, in his own and sometimes twisted way, he loved him.

The night of their second wedding, none of them slept. He laid on top on Peter, his face hiding in the space between the captain’s neck and shoulder, on a sofa Elias had at home and hardly used. Home. That was not what his apartment was to him; the concept had shifted through the centuries in his mind, but he was the closest he’d ever be, there, surrounded by Peter’s big arms.

“Why did you do it?” Elias’ voice was muffled by the cotton of Peter’s coat.

“I was getting compromised.”

“That is the exact point of a marriage, Peter.”

Elias propped up his face, his chin resting on one of his hands, and looked through Peter’s grey eyes. They felt like the fog itself, blurring all lines except the black, lonely irises that crowned their centres. There was softness inside Peter Lukas’ eyes, and Elias Bouchard often thought he was the only one allowed to see it.

“We both know this is something that won’t last, not as much as we’d like to.” Peter sounded defeated and, for a moment, all Elias wanted was to hit him. Then, he remembered.

“The Silence.”

Peter’s lips became a tight line, and Elias knew he had guessed well. Of course, he knew he could _look_ , but he preferred to read Peter on his own. It made everything between them more interesting.

“You were angry,” Elias continued. “You know I have no control over that woman, she’s… too much. Even for me.”

“Are you scared, Mr. Bouchard?” The defeat was gone, replaced by a toying and amused tone.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The world was easy to forget when they spent time at Elias’ place, playing house for days that never became weeks, because there was always a new voyage for the Tundra, a new statement for the Institute. But the hours that drifted between expensive sheets and Chardonnay bottles were a refreshing pause.

One that soon Elias knew would end.


	2. Only a winner and a loser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still, not a podfic but I'd recommend Two evils by Bastille.

Elias left the tunnels under the Institute, gun in hand and small blood stains on the seams of his favourite trousers and hailed a cab. Peter was waiting for him, after all.

The restaurant was close to the London Eye, the cold that the Thames carried with it perfectly tangible from the terrace they had reserved. The sights were a preference for Elias; the reservation of a whole area of a restaurant, Peter’s.

“You look smug today, Elias.”

“It was a good day, _darling_.”

It was, and Elias was beaming. Peter thrived in that light, the dangerous aura that the smaller man carried with him everywhere he went. He watched, he drank the world in, and when times were good, he rejoiced like no other. In a way, Peter felt for Elias as a moth admired the sun: from the distance, knowing that the day he would touch him he would burn himself alive.

And it would have been worth it.

Elias insisted on the beef tartare for starters, and as they had the whole river view side reserved (and the bar), he let the waiter decide on several wines. He made clear that, if he liked the selection, the tip would be generous.

Peter often let him do this thing, wondering if the menu would have made his choices easier than the _carte_. He settled on the Vegetable curry as Elias picked the Poached Fillet of Wild Cornish Turbot. Peter didn’t even notice the difference between the first and third wine bottle: it was all red wine for him.

“So, do you have anyone in mind for the Head Archivist position?”

“I do, actually.” Elias smiled, savoring the mix of the carrots, the sauce and the turbot. “Lonely assistant, orphan and with no life goal in mind.”

“You do know how to look for the best CVs.”

“Sometimes they make it too easy.”

Elias knew something was clouding Peter’s mind. They were often quiet during dinner, leaving all the necessary words for the drinks at his place and the hours spent by the bed. Peter wasn’t even in for the week: the _Tundra’s_ departure was scheduled in less than 48 hours.

“’Bit of out place, wasn’t it? To… dispose of her like this.”

“She saw it coming.”

Peter snorted, a bit too comically, and a small smug smile spread over Elias’ face.

“She really thought I was all caught up with The Dark’s ritual, when I couldn’t care less. All the money, all that investments for nothing but a useless aberration. And they call that their god.”

“We all have different beliefs.” Peter offered.

“Patrons, Peter, don’t forget. It’s a game the one we play, one that not many have been playing this long. It is futile to try any ritual, and less with that woman interceding.”

There was a pause, and Peter placed the fork down.

“So, you knew.”

Of course, Elias had known about The Dark Sun, about the trip with Gertrude all the way to The Spiral’s territory, with that scared, blond young man. It was foolish of Peter to think otherwise. Or, rather than think, to look in another direction.

There was so much a man could overlook in the name of… love.

Elias didn’t even answer: he smiled and kept on eating, washing the bite down with a sip of wine. Peter stared at the other’s neck for a second, observing how his Adam’s apple, hardly noticeable to the untrained eye, went up and down.

Elias liked the attention.

“There are just some events I could not… change. Not if I had to keep Gertrude off me.” He didn’t have to open his _eye_ to know how Peter felt, how distant the fog was suddenly growing.

In an inner joke, Elias thought he might have a new folder on his desk next Monday, with some expensive law firm’s name embroidered on glossy paper.

“She wasn’t _too much_ for you, was she? What did it take you, just a shot?”

“Three, to be more accurate. She just couldn’t die quietly, that woman. Oh, don’t make a fuss out of it, Peter. You know how this” Elias gestured in the air between them, and then out, over the Thames, “works. It is bigger than we are.”

 _There are ashes to be made_ , Elias thought. Something strange, something he had not expected sat then on his chest. The lighthouse that Peter hold inside his gaze was suddenly black.

_Oh._

“I thought this” Peter gestured as Elias had done, between them, “meant something.”

Elias wanted to do several things at once, in no preferred order. He wanted to scream at Peter, to call him a loser and an over optimistic man. He wanted to stand up and throw the table away, to make a scene they both would remember forever. He also wanted to shut up for a second that voice inside him that pulled him, that kept him going with a goal so clear and focus it was sometimes nauseating.

He wanted to ask Peter for help.

He wanted to believe.

But he had been made, he was made, for observing. For beholding.

He could not believe. Could not comprehend.

Maybe the love between them was too much to bear.

Elias did none of these things. Peter’s body stayed, but Elias could feel him far, in a place he could not follow. A place he could not see.

He didn’t have any glossy folders on his desk next Monday, no law firm leaving a notice, a letter, for him to sign. Any message or meeting for his secretary.

Two weeks later, when Peter Lukas arrived in Montevideo, a glossy folder was waiting for him.


	3. Do you love me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Looking for something to control for a while?” Peter toyed; his gaze fixed on Elias.  
> “Oh, you know the answer to that, Captain.”
> 
> Elias leaves one pipe behind and looks for Peter on a cloudy February night.

The cold February wind danced around the sails of the smaller vessels, and Elias’ heels set a steady and calculated rhythm as he walked down the docks. The _Tundra_ was back, imponent and distant, and a figure he recognized too well was waiting for him up above the deck. The lapels of the old captain’s coat were up, in a poor attempt to shield his face from the icy wind, but all Peter Lukas could think of where two questions. First, what was his ex-husband doing there. Second, why were his cuffs stained again with blood.

Elias knew better than to enter the ship uninvited and waited for Lukas to come down the metal stairs. There was no greeting, no hands shaken; just eyes that acknowledged each other and long looks that checked if everything was in the same place they remembered.

“Two years, and you look just like yesterday.”

“I can’t say the same for you, Elias. Too many stains for that clerk job you have.”

The laugh was quiet, shared and honest. It stirred too much in their old tired hearts, but they had learnt to treat that pain as collateral damage.

“Well, aren’t you going to be a gentleman and invite me over for a glass of wine?”

“It’s not exactly wine that I have.”

“Anything with alcohol will work, Peter.” Elias rolled his eyes.

“Please, climb in.” Peter offered with a smile, and he stepped aside to let Elias go up the stairs before him.

One could hardly see the Tundra’s crew; it didn’t matter what time it was or what kind of harbour the ship was in. Elias followed Peter to the main tower, and gladly learnt that an elevator had been installed, wide and with those mirrors Peter enjoyed, that simulated an infinite reflection of the observer. Elias had never liked mirrors; nothing new to learn when all one can observe is the self.  
Peter Lukas’ cabin was half as big as Elias’ apartment, the space between a lit chimney and a king size bed too _spacious_ for his taste, in line with the Lukas’ usual design.

“Brandy?” Elias could not believe that after more than a decade of their strange affair the captain kept only one kind of liquor, and not even one of his favourites. “Do you have something against red wine or gin?”

“The sea is no place for alcohol. It has a way to… connect people.” Peter sat down the small blue sofa there was in front of the chimney with a glass of brandy in hand. “If you don’t like it, there’s some juice in that small fridg-“

“I said I needed alcohol, even if it’s awful, thank you.”

Elias did open the fridge out of curiosity, finding several types of juice. The idea of Peter chugging a small brick of it, or even just a tall glass in front of that chimney stirred his chest in a way he hadn’t feel for two long years. He collected himself before standing up again and walking near the fire, leaning his body over the now lukewarm metal that surrounded it.

“Strange of you not to ask right away.” Elias murmured with the glass on his lips.

Peter scoffed, and with a single swing he drank the rest of his brandy. Elias Bouchard was used to seeing rather than looking, and in that moment, he indulged himself. He had lied: Peter did look different. If his senses were right, he would have sworn the big old captain looked scared.

“I didn’t expect to see you. At all.”

“Oh, but you know I’m always watching.”

“No if I can help it.” Peter smiled, eased into their familiar game.

“That fog is nothing but a nuisance.”

“Yet you know how to be the perfect one, Elias.”

Elias had emptied already his glass and, with the sweet burn still perched on his lips, he walked up to Peter, lift one of his legs and pressed his heel against the blue cushion between Peter’s knees.

“Do you want me to be a nuisance?”

“First answer me one question.”

Elias’ eyebrows went up, and three perpendicular lines crowned his forehead.

“Whose blood is that?” Peter said, and the heel went back to the floor with a sharp _clomp._

“A mistake’s.”

Elias could listen to the gears in Peter’s head moving, adding one plus one and answering the other question that had been linked to that one. Gertrude Robinson hadn’t been an impulse, just a calculated yet exasperated task, but Leitner… Oh, Leitner had been something rather different.

“Leitner’s.” Elias gave in.

“The books’?”

“The man himself. That rat had been hiding thanks to one of the Buried’s books… Thank the Eye Jon needed a cigarette, that man never knew when to stop talking.”

Peter considered getting up to refill his glass, but Elias read the man’s gaze and took it from his wide palm. He poured a generous drink for the captain and, when he gave the glass back, the heel rested again against the soft cushion. Maybe an inch higher.

Peter drank, amused. It was as it had always been, the energy that pulled him into Elias’ visual field, into his trap. Elias’ lips opened, twisted in a sardonic smile that left his sharp canines visible. Maybe it was something The Hunt could comprehend. There was violence in the love they shared, a tender and raw wrath that lit up the blood in the captain’s veins. It made him feel alive, more than isolation itself, because he knew he would eventually lose him. Peter Lukas tried to remember every second that he had given to The Lonely, all of them choices. It had also been one, to fall for a lie, for a man that would give him oxygen and salt like the sea couldn’t, like his patron wouldn’t. There was adventure in Elias' icy eyes, and Peter wanted it all. Even if just for a night.

When he finished his drink, still under Elias’ gaze, Peter sat back on the sofa, opening his legs in a quiet invitation.

“It is so out of character to see you improvise, Bouchard.”

“Oh, you know me, always the soul of the party. How much harm can some improvisation make?” He spoke nonchalantly, but the shiny moccasin had travelled further up, its point closer to the captain’s crotch.

Peter wanted to laugh, and he knew it would surely put on a worthy expression on his ex-husband face, but he was looking for some other entertainment.

“Of course, I keep forgetting you have almost everything scheduled in a way it would make even The Web tremble.”

The moccasin hit its target as one of Elias’ eyebrows went up, cockily. “You sure compliment like a gentleman.”

Peter had managed to suppress a small moan. _Too soon_ , he repeated to himself, as he tried to delay any response to Elias’ moves.

It happened fast. Elias face was now inches from his, and instead of the tough leather, what was now pressing against him was one knee. Bouchard’s long fingers gripped the lapels of his coat; he could smell the brandy in his breath.

It was mesmerizing.

“Looking for something to control for a while?” Peter toyed; his gaze fixed on Elias.

“Oh, you know the answer to that, _Captain_.”

Elias Bouchard kissed the way the ocean casts its waves against whoever tries to defeat its territory: fiercely, stretching every second, taking in all the teeth and spit as a silent prayer. Peter buried his hands in the blond hair dripped in grey, and when he pulled, he found a smile against his lips. The sofa complained when the weight on it shifted, and Elias felt taller, only by a whisper, sitting on the captain’s lap.

Their tongues met on hungrier ground, and hands travelled across clothes. Elias wore soft, tight fabrics, always embroidered in golden details that never had too many eyes; Peter, on the other hand, laid on the rougher, heavier and less homely clothing. It didn’t matter in the end, all the pieces were stripped, all the seams were widely opened in fast and precise movements. Peter stopped at the sound that the plastic buttons of Elias’ shirt made as they hit the floor, faint _clinks_ that managed to measure the time it took them to travel to the bed. Elias walked barefoot backwards until the back of his knees hit the mattress, covered in that old Scandinavian duvet the captain used during his trips up north. Peter had his chest exposed: his hair stood up as Elias’ cold fingers traced a path that started on his throat, with a gentle push, and ended by his navel. Elias travelled up and down the map of Peter’s torso, easily twice as wide as his, taking in all the details he had missed in the last two years. The soft, curly hair; the wide scars, invisible to the untrained eye; the moles that painted a night sky on the captain’s pale skin. Wherever Elias’s fingers touched, his tongue followed.

When Elias decided it had been enough the contact stopped, and Peter opened his eyes. Elias had moved back and rested then among the various pillows and wooden frame that crowned the bed. Peter placed one knee on the mattress, ready to follow, when Elias snorted.

“Oh no, dear, socks off.”

“That’s not what you did on our first wedding night.” Peter had committed to memory every detail of that night, and the socks’ pattern had been impossible to forget.

“I can have them on, you don’t.”

Gladly for Elias, Peter knew better than to argue, and with some coarse moves, the cotton socks met the floor by the bed. “Happy?”

“I’m about to be.” Elias smiled, his arms wide open.

The sun was finally there, welcoming him only to drown Peter into the most utter despair. That was the bargain, the price to pay. Peter closed the space between them, and time, stopped by the buttons, started anew, bringing different shades under the lightly tanned skin of Elias. Peter could embrace him like a cocoon would, taking him away from the world, cutting him from his realm, from beyond. It would only be them: Elias, wrapped under a warm yet distant body, disconnected; Peter, locked as a flesh prison, trying to contain the sun within his arms and veins. Elias closed his hands around Peter’s throat and pulled him down, kissing him with violent devotion. Nails cut into Peter’s skin, and his moan echoed in the painting-less walls, only to ignite more the desire inside Elias’ mouth. Peter tried to distract him; he broke free and applied the same treatment he had been given. With his tongue he marked Elias’ nipples, biting them, teasing him and listening in return to choked moans. Elias’ scars were softer, just under the contour of his nipples, a pink just a few shades paler than his areolas. The captain had not missed the tattoos: wide eyes that look back at him with perverse focus, all different sizes and designs, in green, gold and black ink. The way he had given himself to The Lonely, Elias had given his body to a purpose Peter found hard to understand. But the sounds Elias made, the way the body under him twitched and twisted, he understood. Elias was biting his lip, his skin getting hotter every second that passed, and Peter would drink in his small, pearled beads of sweat after he delighted in how they crossed every curve, every valley. The captain couldn’t help but bite, here and there, at the toned muscles that surrounded Elias soft belly, embellished by the coarse light hair that continued under the black boxers. That was all they had left on: the underwear they both liked to unwrap like presents.

Peter knew what he wanted next, and his tongue landed on the elastic, just an inch over his target. Elias couldn’t bite his lips hard enough to suppress the moan and the surprise, and he twisted entirely, feeling the electricity in his neck and tiptoes.

“Can I…?” Peter asked, one finger waiting under expensive elastic band.

“For f-“ Elias tried to complain, and with a glare than in any other situation would mean instant murder, he nodded at the captain. “Please.”

Peter pulled down the boxers ceremoniously as Elias moved his hips side to side to help in his own way. The blond had his hands under the pillows, arms open wide ready to look not only forward, but up to what it would come.

Peter drank him in: how Elias’ legs were bend and open to the sides, leaving nothing to his imagination; how the blue eyes regarded him with a frantic nerve, a need that he hardly saw in the man. Peter bowed down and licked the wetness. What came out of Elias’ mouth was hardly human, and Peter enjoyed every note of it. With two fingers he opened the outer labia, admiring how wet the blond was, already staining the sheets. Elias was visibly hard; with a slow tongue move Peter licked him, and closed his mouth around it, sucking lightly. Elias couldn’t stop moving; the impulses that connected his brain to his muscles was not his anymore. He was quickly drowning in sweet dopamine and shivers.

To his mouth Peter soon added one and two fingers, that slipped into Elias easily. Peter had learnt the rhythm Elias needed years ago, and he knew well enough when to push harder, when to slow down, when to suck him off with the same violence the blond kissed, until Elias’ hips left the mattress and the earthquake came. But this time, minutes away to torn apart the ever-vigilant man, Elias pulled Peter’s hair up, breaking contact, and spoke in raggedy breathes.

“Strap. Now.”

Peter licked his lips, conscient of how dirty his beard would be and how good Elias tasted. Still he obliged, and with a smile he moved to the bedside table and open the second drawer.

“The cobalt or the golden one?”

“Cobalt.”

“And lube?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Peter took everything he needed and when he turned around, found Elias covered in a glistening layer of sweat, a beacon of light and madness. The blond was up, sitting on his heels.

“You down.” He ordered.

“As you wish.” Peter smiled, and positioned himself where Elias had been, laying on his back. He took off his boxers under Elias’ attention, and put on the strap on with practiced moves. Elias fasten the straps for him. The cobalt dildo, one of the biggest Elias had bought for Peter, sat above and not far from Peter’s own hardness.

Elias licked his lips. He climbed onto Peter, grabbed the lube tube and opened it, enjoying the loud noise it made when the plastic opened. He poured a generous dose on his left hand and locked his eyes on Peter’s. Without breaking any visual contact, Elias slid his hand down up to his arse, and worked himself up. Peter closed his hands around Elias’ hips, delighted and amused, wondering what the man would have been doing since the last time they fucked just to be able to prepare for one of the biggest dildos they owned in such short time. Peter knew Elias was ready when the smile on the blond’s face changed from pleasure to pure hunger. Elias moved and lift his hips, grabbed the cobalt dildo and lowered his body slowly, with a quick finishing move. The reaction was immediate: Elias’ back curved and Peter reacted by lifting his body, burying himself deeper.

They found their rhythm; Elias, with both hands on Peter’s chest, rode the captain like a wave would plough through the ocean. Their hearts, or what was left of them, beat with envious synchrony; hands, lips, sweat filled everywhere. Just when Peter felt himself drifting into a familiar haziness, Elias slightly twirled, and with his clean right hand, found Peter’s clit and squeezed it. They searched frantically each other’s eyes, sharing distorted smiles and disjointed grimaces that described the highest of pleasures, as their bodies were drenched in light, sea salt and unspoken promises.

Elias finished first, shaking as he pulled Peter’s chest hair. The captain followed, still inside the other, his big hands pulling apart the cheeks he dreamed about some nights at sea.

The moth had reached the sun, and had taken it into his hands, eating it raw, hot and with all its consequences.

They spoke no more —some nights a silent truce would be installed in their minds and bodies, and they would sleep in each other’s arms. Temporal ignorance, as they pretend to have, was often their only indulgence.

👁️ 👁️ 👁️

Elias Bouchard left The Magnus Institute as he had left the _Tundra_ that morning: late, with every hair in place, and a smug smile on his face. What he hadn’t _seen_ had been the captain, one street away from the institute with a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Lord, no.” Elias groaned. “For such an intelligent man, Peter, you can sometimes be pretty dense, you know.”

“Evening to you too, Elias.”

“I won’t say yes.”

“Unless? There is always a _but_ or _unless_ with you, dear.”

It fitted; somehow, the answer to all Elias’ loose ends he had lined up to form a single offer.

“Feel like taking a bet, Lukas?”


	4. No Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm (not) sorry. Thank you so much for the wait, hope you enjoy!

**No** **Children**

Boredom had always been for Elias as deadly as disease. The humidity in the cell built a thin layer of sweat that got him every day bribing the closest officer, a cold shower that soon had become a moment for quiet contemplation for the elegant man. Everything was going according to plan, and so he kept an eye on Jon, on his Institute, reaching further than the grey cement walls that dared to cage him. His employees’ plan had been easy to discover and follow, a piece that finally added Peter to the board, but that left him outside the action, with no immediate entertainment. Basira visited often enough, and he had even been glad to see Martin, even if he had come with the dullest questions —proof that Peter was back again at his ever-present obsession.

Ah, that man. How easy to manipulate he was, yet now and then, he knew how to shake the ground under Elias. And so, the captain and then Head of the Institute, walked into his cell only when the fog had thickened enough around Elias’ feet.

“You place the strangest bets, Elias.”

Sitting down and handcuffed to the metal table in the visiting room, Elias briefly smiled.

“Yet you hardly say no to my offers.”

Peter sighed, and Elias lay his eyes properly on the man. He looked tired, in a different fashion he’d always have. Peter walked as he brought the ocean with him, heavily, slow, but with a force that would eat the greatest ships in a blink. In the small, dark room, Peter filled the air with salt and heaviness, and all Elias could do was look. All Elias had wanted to do for the last months was that: look at him once more, drink his image and commit it to memory.

Only he knew how close the finish line was.

“How is my Institute?”

“A disaster, as you left it. For someone so  _ observant _ , you truly know how to disregard the most basic aspects of management.”

“No need to waste time of futile human resources’ activities when the employees can’t leave, Peter.”

The big man sighed, giving up on a futile argument he didn’t even want to have, and reached out to touch Elias’ hands. What Elias hadn’t expected was the knot his throat became, the way his insides coiled at the touch, the warmth that spread from his stomach. Solitude could do that to him —destroy his focus. He had missed his husband's smell, the glimmer in his eyes hidden behind white hair and kind wrinkles. Too kind.

“I know you are up to something, Elias.”

“Then you know better than to ask directly, dear. No need to send puppies my way.”

“One could argue it is your puppy.”

“That depends on how good you are at winning bets,” Elias smiled, full of himself. “You have the poor boy scared with all that Extinction talk.”

“It is a serious matter,” Peter’s voice grew cold, and kindness disappeared from his face.  _ Finally _ , Elias thought. “But that is not why I came here for,” said the captain.

“Oh. Enlighten me then,  _ dear _ .”

“I can see the change of scenery has... taken a toll on you.”

Elias scoffed. It had, he knew it had, but he also knew better than to admit it in front of Peter. He had never used his powers as relentlessly as in there, just to avoid being present, to avoid looking at the same grey horizon for hours and days. He summoned the cold his daily shower offered him, the mantra he repeated to himself every morning.

_ I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die. _

But the kingdom he aspired to was one destined to an only ruler. He had always known that, and yet...

“Spit it out, Peter.”

“I wanted to offer relief. Brief, but some.”

It was ludicrous. Unbelievable. Was the man he had called his husband time and again offering him such a disadvantaged position? A poisoned laughter crackled inside Elias, soon expulsed to the world, a volcano erupting in waves of hot, unbearable disbelief.

“Oh, Peter, you can be so, so...  _ you _ . I certainly must look my worst in ages if whatever Martin told you made you think I would accept your tasteless solitude only to escape this.” The man couldn’t stop laughing, cackling in front the only person he had allowed to be close to him in the last century. What a mistake that had been.

“I said it’d be brief, and I was hoping you would trust me. A truce, a temporary one before the last run.”

“The last... oh, Peter, you know, don’t you? You figured it out?”

Peter’s eyes grew cold as the venom in Elias’ words hit him. He knew whatever Elias was planning was big, one of those go-big-or-go-home plans avatars like them used to organize, and he had felt remorse. He shouldn’t have accepted that bet. He had been blinded by the sun that now laughed at him, that had finally burnt him.

“You are impossible, Elias.”

“Oh, but you love that about me, big man. You can’t resist me, and neither can you resist a big juicy bet.”

For all the hate Elias had for the web, he sure worked in a similar fashion, but Peter had realised way too late. All he could do now was win him.

After the laugh, after the uncertainty, their hands were still touching. Words could come across both men, emotions could bring the worst of them, yet their bodies would always know better. When Peter noticed that, he let himself have hope for just a second. Maybe it was solitude talking through Elias’ tongue. Maybe it was just the thrill to be close to complete his ritual, as Peter knew The Eye had hardly tried in the last centuries. That must be. Maybe he had to trust it would all work out. One could not predict the sun nor the sea —one could only keep moving forward, through the heat and the waves, and believe they will survive.

Peter stood up and their hands ceased their touch. Elias’ laughter had quieted down, and the lack of skin on his shook him up. Peter kissed him before any of them would think it through, before they could regret it. Elias let himself drown in the captain one more time. Peter touched the sun, once again.

It already felt like a goodbye.

“See you soon, Elias.”

“Yes, dear. See you soon.”

The door closed after Peter’s big frame, and Elias sat there, under the dim light, in silence. He knew better than to long for something he had given up two centuries ago. He had made his choice long, long ago.

It was never meant to be.

His kingdom awaited. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Ari and the TMA cosplay squad in Spain, sorry for being your Elias, and no, you cannot renounce: you are here forever.


End file.
